Paul Doherty - Corpse Candle

At first glance Corbett considered Lady Margaret beautiful, despite the greying hair peeping from beneath the wimple, the furrows and lines in her creamy-skinned face. Her lips were full and red, her nose slightly pointed, her eyes large, grey and lustrous, amused but watchful.

‘You knew I was coming, Lady Margaret?’

‘Sir Hugh, everybody in the shire knows you are here with your henchmen Ranulf-atte-Newgate and Chanson the groom. You are at St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh? We have heard of the terrible murders there.’ Her eyes were no longer amused. She picked up the hem of her skirt. ‘You’d best come in.’

She stepped over the lintel and led Corbett into a dark oak-panelled hallway, warm and fragrant-smelling, its light was mirrored in the polished oak walls, the balustrade and newel post on the wide sweeping staircase. Servants hurried up to take Corbett’s cloak and war belt, after which Lady Margaret led her visitors into a small parlour. There was a window seat at one end, with the the shutters pulled back. The chamber was dominated by a huge carved hearth where a fire roared gustily. Lady Margaret gestured at a chair in front of this whilst she took the other. A servant led Chanson and Ranulf over to the window seat. A small table was set between Corbett and Lady Margaret. Plates of sweetmeats and sugared almonds were served whilst a scullion brought deep bowled cups of posset. Corbett took a cup and drank. The wine was hot, laced with nutmeg and other herbs: a welcome relief from the chill of his journey from St Martin’s. Lady Margaret sipped at hers, sitting back in the chair with her face slightly turned away. You have a great deal to hide, Corbett thought, you are welcoming but secretive. He stared round the chamber: its walls were half-panelled and above hung paintings, a crucifix and richly coloured cloths. Behind him a large Turkey carpet covered most of the floor. On each side of the fireplace were cupboards and, above these, rows of shelves bearing ornaments, statues, a gold crucifix and a triptych. He glanced back at the fire; its warmth made him relax and he stretched out his legs. Corbett was amused by the gargoyles on either side of the fireplace, which had women’s faces framed in chainmail and war-like helmets.

‘A fanciful notion of Sir Reginald’s father,’ Lady Margaret observed, following Corbett’s gaze. ‘The manor house is full of them. He had more than a fair sense of humour.’

She put the goblet on the table and laid the white napkin across her lap, smoothing it out, folding it and unfolding it.

‘Well, Sir Hugh, I am sure you aren’t here just out of courtesy.’ She turned to face him fully. ‘There is other business?’

‘Your friend Stephen Daubigny is dead.’

‘I had no friend called Stephen Daubigny,’ she replied quietly.

Lady Margaret stared across at Ranulf and Chanson in the window seat, both pretending to be distracted by something in the garden outside.

‘I do regret Abbot Stephen’s death.’

‘Murder, Madam! Sir Stephen Daubigny was murdered.’

‘Are you sure of that?’ Lady Margaret refolded her napkin.

‘He was found in his chamber with his own dagger thrust through his chest.’

‘I am sorry, Sir Hugh — no man should die like that.’ Lady Margaret looked away. ‘Abbot Stephen was a good man but, to me. .’ She shrugged one shoulder.

‘Did you like him?’

‘Abbot Stephen was my rival. He laid claim to Falcon Brook, and that tiresome Prior Cuthbert has also hinted that a codicil existed whereby St Martin’s could claim more of our land. I informed him that my lawyers would fight such claims tooth and nail in the Court of Chancery.’

‘Did you ever meet Abbot Stephen?’

‘On occasions, from afar. But no, Sir Hugh, I did not like him and he did not like me.’

‘Because he was an abbot who claimed some of your lands? Or because he was Sir Stephen Daubigny?’

‘Both.’

Corbett sipped from his wine and deliberately moved his chair to the side to get a better view. Lady Margaret reminded him of some of the noble widows at Edward’s court: graceful, comely, charming but with a tart tongue and a will of steel.

‘You manage these estates yourself?’

‘I have stewards, bailiffs.’ She smiled impishly. ‘And, above all, lawyers.’

‘And you never married again?’

Lady Margaret blinked. ‘Oh, Sir Hugh,’ she murmured, ‘don’t play games with me.’ She leaned over and patted his hand. ‘I met you at court once. We were not introduced so don’t be embarrassed that you can’t recall my name or face. It was three years ago, on the Feast of the Epiphany, at a Crown-Wearing ceremony. You know how Edward loves such occasions?’

Corbett laughed softly.

‘He was there charging about as he always did. Golden-haired Edward,’ she added wistfully, ‘with a young man’s mind and an old man’s body. Lord, how he’s changed, eh, with his iron-grey hair? I remember him in his youth: he reminded me of a golden leopard.’ She smiled. ‘A magnificent animal, coiled and ready to spring. Anyway, His Grace did as he always did: he hugged and kissed me. I looked over his shoulder and saw a tall, dark-faced, sad-eyed man dressed like a priest near the door. “Who’s that?” I asked the King. “Oh, that’s Corbett my hawk.” Edward replied. “He’d prefer to fly than bow and peck at court”.’

Corbett smiled.

‘You don’t like the court, Sir Hugh?’

‘Sometimes I find it difficult, Madam.’ Corbett ignored Ranulf’s sharp bark of laughter. ‘Everything is shadows with very little substance.’

‘You are married?’ Lady Margaret asked.

Corbett’s smile answered the question.

‘As for my remarriage,’ she continued, ‘I am sure the King told you. Oh, he wanted me to marry this or that person, but I begged him, for the sake of Reginald, to excuse me and he agreed.’ She chewed the corner of her lip. ‘I also quoted canon law, and you know how our King loves the law. There is no evidence, I pointed out, that Sir Reginald is dead so I may not be a widow.’

‘Do you think he is dead, Madam? Do you consider him so?’

‘Yes and no. In the harsh light of reason I know he must be, otherwise he would have returned. But, in my heart, never!’

The words came out almost as a shout.

‘Madam,’ Corbett chose his words carefully, ‘I am here to question you on that, as well as to learn all you know about Sir Stephen Daubigny.’

Lady Margaret put her hands on the arms of the chair and rocked herself backwards and forwards.

‘It is painful,’ Corbett added, ‘but hideous murders are occurring at St Martin’s. Abbot Stephen’s was the first. Now members of the Abbey Concilium are being slain, each hideously branded.’ He paused. ‘They have died by poison, and by arrow, whilst Brother Gildas, the mason, had his brain crushed with a rock.’

Lady Margaret gasped and closed her eyes. She tried to stop it but she began to tremble. She took a deep breath, opened her eyes and picked up the posset cup, cradling it in her hands.

‘Please, Madam, tell me of Sir Stephen?’

‘He and Reginald were like brothers. Remember the Book of Proverbs: “Brothers united are as a fortress”? Well, that’s how it was. Stephen came from a noble but poor family. His parents died young and Reginald’s father took him in, as an act of kindness. So,’ she sighed, ‘they were raised as brothers. When civil war broke out between Edward and his barons, led by De Montfort, Reginald and Stephen flocked to the royal banner. Edward called them his young lions. They were his men in peace and war, enduring all the hardships and privations of campaign. As you know, on one occasion, Stephen saved the King’s life. The war ended and, to the victors, came the spoils. Reginald’s estates were extended: he gained meadows and pastures, granges and barns. I own properties in Cornwall, Somerset, South Yorkshire and Kent. Stephen also prospered. He was given rebels’ estates in Lincolnshire and Norfolk. They both became knight bannerets, members of the King’s Council. They shared Edward’s chamber, and were of that select band of knights who were allowed to carry arms in his presence. They loved each other and Edward loved them both: anything they wanted, they could have. My family come from Lincolnshire. The King arranged our marriage. I was only seventeen but when I met Sir Reginald I fell in love. He was kind and gentle, albeit a born warrior. Oh, he could bore you to death with details about the hunt or the virtues of this war horse compared to another, yet he was a good man.’